To Serve a King (20 page)
She soaked until the water turned tepid and her ardor cooled. Rising up, the fluid dripping from her body like rain into a bucket, she stepped out and grabbed the linen, unfurling it with a snap to wrap about her body.
The small round package flew out of the linen and sailed across the room. For a moment, Geneviève stared at it, dumbfounded.
“Mon Dieu,”
she cried with delight as understanding dawned.
With great haste, she swathed her moist body, dripping hair matted against her face and back, wiping the water from her eyes with an impatient, trembling hand. Her bare feet left wet prints as she rushed to retrieve the box. Her legs curled beneath her as she dropped on the spot and grabbed greedily at the parcel. Smaller
than her fist, a plain hemp string bound the thick, buff-colored ball of velum.
Geneviève laid the package gingerly in her lap, untied the string, and opened the package with the tips of forefingers and thumbs. Her curled lips formed a silent O of delight as the treasure revealed itself, as she found the ring within, and beneath it, the small square of parchment. She brought the ring up before her eyes; the square amethyst jewel mounted upon a simple band of white gold twinkled in the candlelight. Geneviève held it to her, clasping it in both hands, holding it against her chest, feeling the heavy thudding of her heart beneath skin jeweled with beads of water. She kept the trinket imprisoned in the palm of her left hand, the hard metal biting the tender skin, as she deciphered the message.
Once more, the words spoke of gratitude and blessing. Her king compared the purple jewels of her eyes to the purple jewel in her hand. Leaning her back against the corner post of her bed, Geneviève read the message over and over, closing her eyes to memorize its every word, those which gave instruction on how next to send a message, and those conveying Henry’s care and tenderness.
Exhaustion crept upon her with the stealth of a thief, and in the half-conscious state—in the strange world between sleep and wakefulness—Geneviève’s dreams took flight. Her father came to her, alive and magnificent, bearing gifts. If he were alive, he would have done as the king did, showering her with his love through thought, word, and deed.
In the last hazy moments perched on the precipice of sleep, Geneviève tossed the king’s message upon the embers, watching it burn, without regret. She needed no paper to remind her of his fealty. She had his gift and his love; she needed nothing more.
It is better to act and to regret,
Than to regret not to have acted.
—Mellin de Saint-Gelais (1491–1558)
T
here was no mistaking the genuine gladness upon the king’s face as his son cantered into the cobbled courtyard of the stable. It was as apparent as Anne’s disgust when Diane de Poitiers rode in beside him, Montmorency and two members of the House of Guise in their company. The duchesse wiped the revulsion from her face as with a thick, rough cloth when the king called out brightly, “My son joins the hunt,” and turned to her with his broad smile.
“What a wonderful surprise,” she said loud enough for all to hear, and a rousing cheer rose up from the large gathering of courtiers.
Geneviève mopped the thin film of sweat forming on her forehead. At its apex in the brilliant azure of the afternoon sky, the sun glowed like a ball of flame while cicadas buzzed in a heat that was more like midsummer than late spring. She studied the heir apparent with a squinty-eyed gaze.
There was little denying the beauty of the Dauphin, his black hair glinting like steel in the bright light, his black eyes dazzling and dangerous. In his early twenties, he was at the peak of his
manhood and it exuded from him with every movement, with every brooding look. How hard he fought to strut and flaunt his gloom for the sake of resistance itself, always struggling to maintain the control over his own existence that had been lost to him as a child prisoner in Spain.
“Father.” He dipped his head at the king, bearing little resemblance to François or his happiness. But the child’s coldness could not dampen the father’s spirit.
“I am pleased to see you, my son. We shall have a fine day of sport.” His words reached for his child, though the young man lay forever out of his grasp; the father he was now, had not yet—and perhaps never would—replace the father he had been. “Madame.” François greeted Diane with a turn of his black stallion, the jewels encrusted upon the saddle blanket and bridle sparkling as did his smile.
The pale beauty was the perfect foil for her lover’s dark good looks; together they formed both ends of light’s spectrum.
“Majesté.”
She rose up on the stirrups of her saddle and bowed to the king, not acknowledging Anne with either word or gesture. Anne’s eyes turned deep emerald as she stared at her rival, as she watched Diane interact with the king, always leery of any form of discourse between the two.
Diane’s father had been a part of the Bourbon affaire; her husband had been among those who revealed the treason to the king. From that moment, Diane had known a bud of hate for her husband from an arranged marriage. It soon eclipsed any affection burgeoning between them, and her marriage’s demise brought the angst of her father’s action upon her twofold. Was her guilt, in truth, enough to impel her to the king’s bed, to beg for forgiveness with the most precious commodity she had to offer … herself? Most of the court believed it to be true. Neither had ever denied it.
“You have picked the perfect day to join us.” Sebastien chuckled as he pulled his horse up beside Geneviève’s; the animals
neighed and tossed their heads as they recognized each other. He followed her gaze to the two couples at the center of the congested courtyard. “There will be all types of sport today.”
Geneviève averted her eyes, but could not keep the conspiring grin at bay. “I made you my promise, sir, and it is my pleasure to keep it.”
Leaning toward her in his saddle, Sebastien gave her his scintillating, half-dimpled smile. “You are a flower in full bloom today, mademoiselle,” he said, taking in her eggplant-colored riding costume hugging her feminine curves. “But there was no need to bring your weapon.” He gave a nod to the bow and quiver slung across her back. “We will hunt
à vénerie
today. The mastiffs will bring the beast down. All we need are our spears and our daggers.”
Between the king and his great courtiers, they boasted more than five hundred falcons with which to hunt herons and kites, but today’s sport would be a boar hunt, as preferred by François.
“I always carry my bow when on any hunt,” Geneviève returned with the same jaunty air. “A hunter can never tell what quarry may cross her path.”
Sebastien barked a laugh at her double entendre, the deep, creamy sound rising over the merry tune struck by the musicians of the
écurie.
The flageolets and trumpets, sackbuts and hautbois trilled a sprightly song befitting the day. The brothers who so amused Geneviève would not be among their number; they would be disgraced to be in the company of the socially inferior musicians of the stable.
From behind Geneviève another horse approached with a playful whinny, Sebastien grinning broadly at the rider.
“Albret, you have returned,” he cheered. “How well it is to see you.”
“And you, Sebastien.” The marquis de Limoges dipped his red head at him and turned his pale blue eyes to Geneviève. “
Bonjour,
mademoiselle. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Monsieur,” Geneviève returned with natural ease. “I hope your journey was fruitful.”
“I have found my holdings to be in fair condition,” he replied. “A man can ask for no more.”
“It is all well if it allows you to return to court,” Sebastien offered with genuine delight. “And I am well surprised to find you know Geneviève.” He smiled her way with ill-disguised propriety. “We will make a jolly day of it together.”
Albret forced a smile in return, disappointed gaze moving between the two companions. “The very best of days.”
Geneviève heard the note of discontent in the mammoth man’s voice, and scoured his features. But the large lord offered no more than a wistful smile and she remained puzzled.
Horses chomped at the bit, voices rose in excited clatter, the anticipation grew deep and heavy in the air as the time to begin grew closer. What the common man did to feed himself and his family, these nobles looked upon as their most cherished sport. Lines began to form at the edge of the vast courtyard. In the front rank of the crowd rode the king, flanked by a hundred or more riders, like the lead goose in a V-shaped gaggle crossing and filling the sky. Riding closest to him, fluttering around him like petals around a stamen, came his fair band of ladies, the chosen group of the most beautiful, most amusing ladies at court. The noblemen and princes sat straight-backed yet with masculine casualness on their warhorses and stallions; the ladies graceful and fine in their colorful plumage.
The hounds came in with a cacophonous braying, straining against the reins and the whippers-in who held them, as if they would choke themselves with the effort to be loose.
“Are you ready?” Sebastien called, but his knowing smile said the question was no more than rhetorical.
Geneviève’s cheeks burned with thrumming blood; she hitched in the awkward saddle she had at last mastered, as anxious to be off as the hounds themselves. She answered with the widest of
smiles, dazzling him with her naked joy, all the more astounding for its rarity.
The bells chimed thrice and the beasts were loosed; at least forty hounds surged forward. With a giant yell, the king dug in his heels; his stallion reared and dropped as though he were the flag that began the joust. Like the surge of a tidal wave, the company broke forward, their cries drowning beneath the thunder of hooves.
Side by side Geneviève and Sebastien rode, their horses huffing and snorting. As the contingent broke the field, the assemblage fractured as well, one large party heading off behind a group of hounds, more hunters following another. Geneviève and her companions stayed behind François and his son Charles as they followed the loudest and most aggressive pack, and she felt the surge of the hunt, as if, like the hounds, she could smell the beast.
From the corner of her eye, movement captured her seeker’s vigilance. More riders broke off into smaller parties of two; Geneviève watched their shift for a moment, confused, but turned back to the hounds and the pursuit.
Nearly an hour passed before the dogs slowed their pace, before they lowered their noses to the ground, picking up the scent of the boar. The riders slowed but the excitement built; the prey was near at hand. As Geneviève intently searched the forest, she found a few of the couples who had left the crowd. Hiding under trees, bent behind shrubbery, they clenched each other in the throes of passion—a man here with one woman, his wife there with a different man, their carnality furtive and extreme, as if the greater possibility of discovery intensified their pleasure. Now she understood the lewd tapestries so prevalent at every palace.
“They have other conquests in mind than the thrill of the chase,” Sebastien bellowed.
Geneviève blushed, not at the wanton acts, but at her own naïveté.
“I can s—”
Four horn blasts from the left put all other thoughts aside. Riders yanked
upon their reins, spinning their horses to the sound. Geneviève’s horse leaped to the front behind the king, spurred on by her mistress’s heels and the exhilaration coursing through her body. The prickly brown animal stood far ahead, halfway up a low, grass-covered rise on the horizon, his blackness a blemish on the speckled yellow and purple meadow. Its flat, ugly snout rustled in the ground beside its cloven feet.
“Magnificent!”
Geneviève heard the king yell at the massive size of the beast. Even from this distance, they could see the grotesque proportions of the animal. In all her years of hunting, Geneviève had never seen one quite so large. She turned to smile at Sebastien, galloping upon her heels. They brought up their horses a safe distance from the beast, before their movement and sound spooked him away. It reared its head, snout twitching at the new scent in the air, revealing huge tusks curling up over its top lip. From here, the spear-armed men would approach the prey on foot, following behind the hounds.
“He is mine!” The cry came from a small grove of evergreen trees on the right. From their camouflage, a group of riders shot forward, the Dauphin and Diane at the lead.
“He’s mine!” Henri cried again, cutting off the pursuit, his enormous gray charger veering in front of his father’s mount.
The king checked his descent from the saddle, no one but the few nearby catching the slight gesture. With a jut of his chin, he sent the mastiffs forward. The black hairy beast upon the hill froze for a fraction too long, beginning his ungraceful gallop as the horde of hounds bore down on him.
The dogs reached him with triumphant, horrifying yelps, sinking their teeth into his neck and hindquarters, pulling him down to the ground. The beast struggled for freedom, stunted legs waggling in the air as he tried to right himself and flee, blood running like a river of scarlet from his wounds, the smell dank and primal in the air. The mania of the kill shone in the hounds’ eyes, but
they knew their duty, knew no meat would reach their bellies did they not hold the beast for the master to kill.
Henri slid from his horse before it came to a stop, a long-shafted, short-bladed spear glinting in his hand. The other riders circled closer to watch, no one more attentive than the king himself. The Dauphin swaggered up to the beast, mounting the small hill like a victorious warrior. No more than a few steps away from the animal, he raised his spear and …
